


Appraisal

by inquisitor_tohru



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Character Study, Dragon Age Story: Paper and Steel, Gen, Implied Corypheus/Architect, Introspection, Lyrium Addiction, Missing Scene, Orlais (Dragon Age), Recruitment, References to Addiction, Slavery mention, Slice of Life, Team Dynamics, Tevinter Imperium (Dragon Age), Tranquil Mages, Venatori, Villain Of My Own Story Exchange 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:55:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23792707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inquisitor_tohru/pseuds/inquisitor_tohru
Summary: When it comes to recruitment, Corypheus tailors his method to the individual.
Relationships: Florianne de Chalons & Livius Erimond, Livius Erimond & Corypheus, Raleigh Samson & Calpernia, Raleigh Samson & Corypheus
Comments: 8
Kudos: 8
Collections: Villain of My Own Story Exchange 2020





	1. The Templar

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Swindlefingers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swindlefingers/gifts).



All you have is your fire  
And the place you need to reach  
Don't you ever tame your demons  
But always keep 'em on a leash

\- Hozier, _Arsonist's Lullaby_

“This place is foreign to me. Explain clearly: what is a templar?” Corypheus regarded Raleigh Samson as his lip twitched at the corner, a flurry of emotions playing across his features. A loaded question then, Corypheus mused. He gazed into the flickering embers in the fireplace again, pleased to be rid of the inferior eyesight of the Grey Warden whose corporeal form he'd borrowed, and intrigued by Samson's lack of fearfulness with regards to his appearance. Considering the rumours Corypheus had heard whispered between the Hanged Man's patrons, coupled with the fragility of the veil in Kirkwall, perhaps the man had seen stranger things.

"The Order deserves better," Samson said suddenly. "We trusted them: we deserve better than being used until our minds are washed away. They treat us like animals. Their own templars!” Samson's rage was palpable, simmering beneath bone-white skin. As he listened, Corypheus' hand slipped beneath his robes, caressing the vial of lyrium, glowing red instead of blue. He revealed it to Samson. A gift. A promise.

"If you could tear this upstart Chantry out by the roots," Corypheus rasped, still unused to speaking in what he'd known only as the dwarven Trade Tongue, "bring about a new Order, what price would you be willing to pay?" He saw the answer in Samson's eyes even before he spoke.

"If it gave one templar a better end than mine, I’d pour out my own blood for it. But I burned out long ago. You’re asking the wrong man." Corypheus grinned, twisted facial muscles pulled taut against misshapen bone.

"I think not."

He watched as Samson took the vial, its bright ruby glow spreading to his palm. From what Corypheus had gathered, red lyrium was a relatively new discovery amongst the mortals of Thedas. But the very deepest parts of the Deep Roads, below the Dwarven Thaigs, were teeming with it. Some of the darkspawn emissaries used it to augment their magic, but if its effectiveness differed from that of blue lyrium, then that difference was negligible. For mortals though, it was anything but.

Samson's throat took on a soft pink glow as he swallowed the vial's contents. Though he had not used lyrium for a long, long time, Corypheus was familiar with the rush of power and confidence that came with its consumption. From Samson, he also sensed relief. Relief, and clarity. And pride.

He regarded Raleigh Samson, and knew that this was what a templar looked like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've read Paper & Steel, the short story by Jo Berry, then this setting and dialogue will be extremely familiar! I thought it could be fun to see the scene through Corypheus' eyes as well as Samson's.


	2. The Magister

His puppets to the left, and  
His pawns to line the right,  
But every eye is front and center.

\- The Dear Hunter, _Mr. Malum_

Magister Livius Erimond of Vyrantium huffed as he was turned away from yet another of the infamous Wigmaker's parties. Anybody who's anybody would be there, his youngest sister had drawled as she'd sipped on an Antivan vintage procured by one of her various suitors. (He was unsure which, as he found it rather difficult to keep up when not a single one of them was _worth_ knowing.)

He looked down at his boots, wondering what on earth was so offensive about pure white drakescale and a block heel. Well, there was no accounting for taste. To be quite frank, he suspected Ambrose's parties were probably a great deal duller than anyone liked to let on. After all, half the things he heard about them were quite ridiculous. Even the most distinguished individuals in the Magisterium did not demonstrate the kind of powers Ambrose was rumoured to possess. He had to be a fraud - yes, Livius was quite sure of it. Regardless, he _needed_ to get into one of these parties.

He took the neatly folded parchment from his pocket and skimmed the contents once more:

_Gallant brothers and sisters...In our veins runs true Tevinter blood, passed down from the dreamers-_

"Perhaps we might help one another." Livius almost jumped out of his skin (something that was possible, but not pretty, if you had plenty of lyrium and blood at your disposal). The stranger's approach had been muffled, by something more than mere lightness of foot. Livius turned to face an unnaturally tall figure - not one of the brutish ox-men, but someone who was human, or _had_ been. Now he was more of an approximation of what a demon in the Fade might imagine a human to be.

As Livius opened his mouth to argue, the stranger handed him a pair of knee high boots. He wasn't sure where he'd pulled them out from, but it didn't really matter. Even Livius could recognise the quality of the deep wine-red dragonscale, and from a glance they appeared as if they would be perfectly fitted to his physique. He eyed the stranger with suspicion.

"And what is it that _you_ want from _me_?"

"This city and its customs are foreign to me. I find myself in need of a guide." Now that the stranger had stepped into the light, Livius realised what it was that he reminded him of.

Darkspawn.

This was fantastic - with a costume so _outrageous_ , they were bound to be ushered into the upper crust of Vyrantium society - to find themselves amongst the throngs of aristocrats that spilled out into the estate's lush gardens. Livius couldn't _wait_ to meet the renowned Ambrose Forfex, finest wigmaker in all of Tevinter.

"I'd be very much obliged..?" He hadn't caught a name.

"Corypheus."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: the character of Ambrose and contents of the parchment Livius is reading are from _The Wigmaker Job,_ one of the short stories in the Tevinter Nights anthology.


	3. The Grand Duchess

Embrace us with arms and dress us with swords and light up our hearts with blood so bold.

\- Raney Shockne, _Empress of Fire_

If one was inclined to observe the grand duchess, rather than be dazzled by her chevalier brother, or her cousin the empress, they might have noticed that she didn't take a single bite from any of the fine Orlesian cheeses she'd selected. She disliked the flavour almost as much as the odour, but their foreign guests _expected_ cheese. She recalled the king of Ferelden had been particularly enamoured with...well, every piece he sampled, actually.

One might also have noticed that the grand duchess's glass was never empty - not because her servants were attentive (although they _were_ ), but because barely a sip passed her lips. Florianne de Chalons abhorred drunkenness and the lack of control that came with it, though other people's overindulgences could certainly embolden folk, or loosen their lips, or make a poor shot out of a decent archer.

But someone _had_ been observing her, and that is how she found herself entangled with a magister from Vyrantium, dressed in a bizarre combination of a Tevinter styled velveteen doublet, an Orlesian silk shirt, and...the less said about his trousers, the better. Even his staff was an amusement, with two crudely carved mabari towards the tip. But she could appreciate the design and craftsmanship of his red drakescale boots, and told him as much.

"My master gifted them to me," he said, swelling with pride. Florianne laughed, taking care to flutter her painted red lashes.

"Forgive my ignorance, Magister - but I was unaware that a man of your station would serve a _master_."

"I suppose it is more of a _partnership_ ," he replied silkily. "He serves Tevinter, and so do I. Just as Tevinter's glory would serve the world." So, the man who called himself Corypheus had sent her one of his lackeys. Florianne couldn't give two figs about Tevinter, but for someone who'd been brought up on not only the stories, but the _realities_ of courtly intrigue and power plays within the Orlesian noble families, power was everything.

"Ah, I see. More wine?" She beckoned the servant whose current occupation was pouring red wine into Gaspard's not-quite-empty goblet.

"Yes, thank you." He drummed his fingers on the table until his glass was refilled, then took a long sip. "Corypheus has secured the cooperation of your southern Templars," he drawled, "and I have already recruited the Grey Wardens to our cause." The magister's words were beginning to slur together, confirming what she'd heard about Vints and their excesses.

"You flatter me," she jested. "They are hardly _my_ Templars." He laughed along with her, as if they were not discussing the possibility of treason in the presence of the grand duke. Still, if it was true that Corypheus had the remnants of the Templar Order _and_ the Grey Wardens on his side...well, they would be more than a match for her brother's chevaliers, who spent most of their time posturing and butchering elves instead of fighting real battles. Florianne brought her glass to her lips, allowing herself the barest taste of the summer rosé.

"Pray, tell your _partner_ I would gladly accept an audience with him."


	4. The Free Mage

Oh but she burns   
Like rum on the fire

\- Hozier, _Cherry Wine_

Calpernia poured two cups of the mint tea she'd brewed - one for herself and one for Samson. His eyes were brighter tonight, and his smile less tired.

"That armour will be the death of you," she said, a little more sharply than she'd meant it. But she _liked_ Samson, whose compassion for the templars he commanded was clear, and whose easy banter was far more compelling than the other Venatori leaders' "wit". Samson just shrugged.

"Might as well make myself useful while I still can." She bit her lip, thinking about telling him he didn't need to lock himself in a cage of red lyrium to be _useful._ It wasn't her place to tell him what he ought and ought not to do, but Corypheus' insistence on the armour, amongst other things...well, it reminded her that whatever he might be now, he was once a magister. He was also their only chance at change, _real_ change in Tevinter, and he _had_ supported her liberation of the slaves. He certainly wasn't like any other magister she'd met.

As if reading her thoughts, Samson rolled his eyes and gave a subtle nod towards Livius Erimond, who was looking expectantly at their cups of tea. Like hell she'd serve him tea. As Samson had so aptly put it, she wouldn't piss on him if he was on fire. Unsurprisingly, he had no love for that pompous prick either, and the feeling appeared to be mutual. Calpernia suspected there were many reasons for their mutual dislike of one another, such as Tevinter's innate wariness of southern templars and their abilities, and Kirkwall's fraught and complicated history with the Imperium.

But mostly it had to do with Maddox.

Calpernia couldn't deny that she'd found the craftsman unnerving when she'd first made his acquaintance. She'd never met a tranquil mage before, and when she came to know what the sunburst on his forehead meant, she understood why Samson hated the Chantry so much. If Erimond had simply been disturbed by what had been done to Maddox, she had no doubt that Samson would have sympathised. The problem was that he didn't see Maddox as a person, or as anything really. He was less than _nothing_ to Erimond, and he made no effort to hide it in front of Samson or anyone else.

Calpernia wasn't sure how much of their former personalities tranquil mages retained, but she saw no reason to be cruel. Evidently, Maddox had enjoyed crafting and enchanting weapons and armour before he'd been subjected to the Rite of Tranquility. Whether he continued out of love for the craft or out of habit, Calpernia couldn't say. But now and then she saw a flicker of _something_ in Maddox's features, like when he made his little steel birds.


	5. The Elder One

The gods of your ancestors salute you  
They draw you in they draw you through  
They draw they draw you through that golden door

\- Patti Smith, _Memento Mori_

House Amladaris was mediocre and Sethius had been no exception, according to the records Calpernia found. In the relative privacy of one of the antechambers in the Shrine of Dumat, Corypheus had poured over those last scraps of his old life. He'd recently taken to preserving some of his memories, lest they fade away. When speaking with Erimond, he'd been almost as ashamed to have forgotten the names of his slaves as he was to realise Erimond hadn't _noticed_ their emission from the tale. When last he'd glimpsed the Architect of the Works of Beauty, his former rival and lover appeared to have no memory of ever having been human. Corypheus had not approached, telling himself he hadn't wished to intrude upon the new life the Architect had built for himself. That he seemed more at home with the darkspawn and the dirt. It was a lie.

That was, in part, why he had come to call upon Magister Irian Amladaris. It was pleasing to see that his descendents were wealthy and lived comfortably, in a home whose façade mirrored the ancient architecture of Sethius Amladaris' own estate, with its weathered arches and doric columns. Not the originals, but worthy imitations. These newer walls were not infused with blood magic, but Corypheus recognised the protective wards around the courtyard, where two children were playing, their tawny cheeks tinged coppery-pink from exertion. Corypheus stopped short of the villa's grand entrance, and turned around. Once again, the ties that bound him to his former life were pulled taut, with an expectation, or perhaps a hope, that they might break.

For all the years he'd had to find the words, Corypheus couldn't rightly articulate the reason that one moment he balked at these memories, and the next he clung to them as if they were all he had. When he'd witnessed the Architect, or whoever he was now, it had been one of those former moments that prevented him from reaching out. But what stalled him this time, when confronted with ripples of the past, was something very different.

Sethius had two children, too.


End file.
